by Steve Berry
The dust cloud thinned.
Someone started clapping. A slow, steady, almost mocking gesture. She walked out toward daylight and found the source.
Proctor.
Bastard.
“Well done,” he said. “I gave you only about a 20 percent chance of making it in three minutes.”
She shook her head to clear her face and hair of dust. “And what would have happened if I hadn’t?”
He shrugged. “Problem over. But you did make it out. So now you and I are taking a trip.”
She had little choice. “Can I ask to where?”
“You can, but I won’t answer.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“As you know, I have Terry Morse. If I don’t arrive soon after that truck arrives, my associate will kill the old man.”
She had no reason to doubt the statement. This man seemed to enjoy killing. So she simply asked, “Do I get my hands free?”
“If you’re a good girl.”
Which she intended to be since she needed them unbound. Once that happened, she’d deal with James Proctor.
And the truck?
Thank goodness it could be tracked.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Cotton returned to the Smithsonian, finding Rick Stamm in his office beneath the Castle. The entire encounter with Frank Breckinridge had been troubling. How much of that old man’s mind was really gone? Hard to say. The man clearly lived in the past, yet retained a solid hold on history, which might explain the ability to so easily code the message he’d passed on.
BENEATH ELEVEN MISTAKES.
He told Stamm everything.
The curator shook his head. “Amazing. I know exactly where we have to look.”
* * *
Grant roused himself.
He hadn’t passed out from the beating, but it had been close. The two men had taken a play from his book and expertly administered the punishment with just enough force to make the point, but not enough to damage anything. Luckily he was in good shape, and his tight abs had absorbed most of the blows. He lay in his father’s den on the floor, the old man talking on the front porch to his two thugs. He’d caught bits and pieces, but not enough to know what was going on. At least he now knew how his father had lived alone. There was nothing wrong with him. The whole thing had been a ploy, one used quite effectively he had to admit. And he’d done exactly what his father had wanted, without ever realizing he was being manipulated.
The screen door opened and closed.
His father stepped into the den and sat in a chair. “How’d that feel?”
“I get it, old man. I gave it to you. And you gave it back to me.”
His father laughed. “I do like your bravado. You never were afraid of much. You had so much potential, but you never showed a shred of the discipline needed to channel it. Then, all at once, you focused on gold. Greed really is a powerful motivator, isn’t it?”
He winced against the nausea building from the beating. “I wanted that treasure.”
“But it’s not yours.”
He rubbed his sore stomach. “So who gets it?”
“That remains to be seen. Right now, I require your help.”
* * *
Cotton settled into a chair and faced Stamm, who sat behind a cluttered desk.
“Beneath eleven mistakes. Breckinridge is talking about James Smithson, the man who left the initial gift of $500,000 that started the Smithsonian.”
“How do you know that?”
“I can show you upstairs. How much do you know about Smithson?”
“Little to nothing.”
“We try hard to make Smithson appear more than he was. Unfortunately, he wasn’t Indiana Jones. He was just an ordinary, nondescript 19th-century scientist. He studied things like coffee making, human tears, and snake venom, and managed to discover a mineral that was eventually named for him after his death. Smithsonite. But it’s a relatively useless ore. Nothing Smithson did was revolutionary or particularly enlightening. But he lived at the time when chemistry was emerging as its own science, drifting away from alchemy, becoming a respected discipline. In a small way he helped forge that distinction.”
“And he’s buried upstairs.”
Stamm nodded. “In the crypt, just inside the north entrance. He’s been there since 1905, just after his remains were brought over from Italy. He was originally buried in Genoa, but Alexander Graham Bell, one of our regents at the time, convinced everyone to bring the bones here. Bell traveled to Italy in 1903 and personally supervised their return.”
Stamm told him how Smithson’s coffin then went on public display inside the Regents’ Room upstairs for over a year, while a crypt adjacent to the north entrance was prepared. It was originally intended as a temporary resting place until funds could be found for a more elaborate memorial. But those moneys never materialized. In 1973 it was decided to renovate the crypt to make it more welcome to visitors.
“That’s when Breckinridge took it upon himself to open the grave,” Stamm said. “The secretary at the time was out of the country, in India, which was surely no accident on Breckinridge’s part. He chose the moment carefully. Afterward, there was a lot of debate about what he did.”
“He had no authority to open the grave?”
“That’s hard to say. He was Castle curator, and they were renovating the crypt. So he could do whatever was necessary to get that job done, but he did not have the regents’, or the secretary’s, specific okay to open the tomb. A lot of people were present, though, when it happened. The undersecretary, several assistant secretaries, curators, archivists. Then some staff member called the Washington Star-News and reported what was happening. They also turned us in to the DC authorities. It seems you need a permit to open a grave within the district, which Breckinridge did not have. To diffuse all that attention, a reporter was invited over and shown the bones. He eventually ran a sympathetic story that nobody cared about.”
“So what was inside?”
* * *
Grant listened as his father explained, “They’re going to reopen James Smithson’s tomb.”
He knew his father had done the same thing, years ago. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because the man who came here earlier is the same one investigating all of this for the Smithsonian. I pointed the way, provided he’s smart enough to figure it out. I’m betting he is. They won’t be able to resist taking a look. And they’ll do it tonight.”
“How did you know about him?”
“It’s my job to know everything. I’ve been watching all of this closely for a long time. I have many eyes and ears.”
“I don’t get it. Why would you point the way?”
“You were able to find the Witch’s and Trail Stones. I led you to both. But the Heart Stone is something different. I left it inside Smithson’s tomb in 1974, after I opened it for a supposed historical inspection. I took that chance because I knew that tomb was the perfect hiding place. Davis Layne wanted the five stones to get to the gold. He wouldn’t stop. I tried conventional methods, even a threat or two, but they all failed. So I hid away the one piece of the puzzle he could not do without.”
He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“You should know that I now have the Witch’s Stone,” his father said.
“How? My men took photos of it in Arkansas, but were not able to get it.”
“And they failed. So I sent my men, who are far more competent. They now have the stone. Your men are dead.”
He was shocked.
“I was forced to eliminate them, thanks to you,” his father said.
Who cared? They were not his problem.
He had bigger ones.
“What did you manage to obtain on the Trail Stone?” his father asked.
“Only photos. I was interrupted.”
“I heard about what happened in Fossil Hall. You’re lucky not to have been arrested.”
“The guy who was here. He’s the one who tr
ied to stop me. I recognized his voice.”
“Then it’s fortunate he did not know you were here. You do understand that you’ve made this a thousand times more difficult. I never dreamed you would kill a man, then shoot a federal agent.”
“But it’s okay for you to kill three men.”
“Those deaths will never be discovered. But that federal agent you shot is still clinging to life in a hospital. You’re lucky that they are keeping this close, for the moment.”
“I got what you wanted, didn’t I?”
“Oh, yes, that you did. But you’ve drawn a lot of unnecessary attention. Far more than we ever anticipated.”
“Who’s we?”
“That’s not necessary for you to know. What’s important is that I’m going to give you one more chance to redeem yourself.”
“And do what?”
“Get the Heart Stone.”
* * *
Cotton read from the two pages Stamm had printed off the computer.
A report from the Smithsonian archives.
Subject: Exhumation and Reinterment of the Remains of James Smithson
From: Frank Breckinridge, Curator of the Smithsonian Institution Building
Date: 5 October 1973
The coffin containing the remains of James Smithson, located in the crypt, Smithsonian Institution Building, was exhumed on Wednesday, 3 October 1973, and reinterred on Friday, 5 October 1973. This report is made for the record and will be placed in the archives. I cannot foresee any reason for any future exhumation of the Smithson remains since a careful and complete study was made at this time of the location and condition of the coffin and of the skeleton itself.
In mid-September 1973 I asked the Building Management Division to explore the floor area of the crypt to locate the coffin. Records relating to the installation of the tomb and coffin from 1904 gave conflicting reports. On 1 October 1973, we opened the lid of the sarcophagus-shaped vessel atop the tomb but found the interior chamber empty. On 2 October 1973, I had a hole drilled into the north side of the tomb base. That afternoon we were able to determine that the coffin was inside the base. The four marble sides of the base were permanently secured by iron pins, so I had the north side of the base broken with drills. An identical piece of the same Italian marble has been ordered to replace this section.
Upon removing the coffin lid, a copper box was found fitted inside a wooden coffin, sealed by means of solder. It was decided to open the copper box by using blowtorches to melt the seals. Workmen melted the solder, and the lid for the copper box was removed to reveal Smithson’s skull at one end and the remaining bones scattered throughout the box, mixed with dirt and pieces of wood from the original 1829 coffin. The blowtorches melted the solder but, in so doing, set the silk lining on fire. The foreman sent the laborers into the hall to fill their mouths with water from a fountain so as to extinguish the small fire that developed, without disturbing the skeleton. A nearby fire extinguisher was not needed. The lid to the copper box was replaced, then covered with a tablecloth and carried across the Mall to a laboratory in the natural history museum. No manuscripts of any kind were found within the copper box.
The bones were measured, photographed, x-rayed, catalogued, cleaned, then placed in separate plastic bags. At 1:00 P.M. on Friday, 5 October 1973, a group of witnesses assembled in the machine shop of the natural history museum. Typed reports were placed inside the coffin before it was sealed stating why it was opened, when, and condition of the remains at the time. The lid for the copper box was sealed by soldering, then it was transported across the Mall by car. At 1:45 P.M., 5 October, the box was replaced within the ornately carved mahogany coffin with six sterling-silver handles and a silver plaque bearing Smithson’s name. Then it was placed back in the base of the tomb with an iron plate until the marble arrived from Italy.
* * *
“That replacement panel did not arrive until February 1974,” Stamm said. “So Breckenridge had four months to remove the iron plate and hide anything he wanted inside the base. He was curator, with free access anytime, day or night.”
Cotton recalled what Weston told him about the feud. “Davis Layne wanted the gold. I’m assuming without the Heart Stone it’s impossible to find. So Breckinridge concocted a reason to open Smithson’s grave, then stashed the Heart Stone inside, where no one could ever look. He even says that right here in this report. I cannot foresee any reason for any future exhumation of the Smithson remains.”
“But he was wrong,” Stamm said. “We’re going to open it again, tonight, after closing time. I’m the curator, too, with unfettered access. But one thing bothers me. After all these years, why did Breckinridge point the way?”
“Because that old man wanted us to know.”
And he’d been thinking about a plan of action.
But he’d need help.
So he called Magellan Billet headquarters.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Grant rode in the rear seat of his own car. His father and one of the men who’d pummeled him sat in the front. They were driving across DC. His gut still hurt, but he’d survive. His cell phone had been taken, along with his gun. He felt like a child being disciplined, helpless to do much of anything. Where before he’d enjoyed being empowered, now once again he was nothing. He’d misjudged his father. Even worse, he’d been used. He wondered if any of what he’d accomplished was real, or just all part of a plan that he would have ultimately played no part in.
“There are some things you need to know,” his father said from the front passenger seat. “And this time I will provide them without your usual means of persuasion.”
“You ever going to give it a rest? Your apes made your point.”
His father chuckled. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m old and so little amuses me anymore. You’re about all I have left.”
“I haven’t missed the insults, either.”
His father turned around and faced him. “How about I just put a bullet in your head and be done with it?”
Not a hint of amusement laced the threat.
“Get to the point. What do you want to tell me?”
Angus Adams was glad to see Joseph Henry. The last time they were together had been the day of the fire. January 24, 1865. Twelve years had passed. A lot had changed. They sat inside Henry’s first-floor office. The Castle had been restored, the building once again a vibrant, working museum, the inside different from before.
Thank God the war was over. Those years had been difficult on everyone. Especially spies. Afterward, many went into hiding or took new names, new identities, trying to escape a career of lies. Feelings of ineptness, powerlessness, and depression were common. Suicides rose. Not surprising. Once spies lost their nerve, death was not far away. A few had been hunted by Federal troops, then killed. And not after being charged or tried, just shot and left to rot. The more successful the spy, the more determined the hunt. He’d been one of the best, and the Federals had sought him. But he’d escaped to a place where no one would have ever looked.
“I was thrilled when I received the telegram saying you were coming for a visit,” Henry said. “I’ve always wondered what happened to you.”
He chuckled. “I barely made it out of the city the day of the fire. Apparently my mission had been compromised.”
Henry told him more of what happened that day.
“The Federals were looking for the Confederate government records. They knew they’d been evacuated from Richmond and were told that they were to be given to the Smithsonian. That captain you saved came to see me a few days later and wanted to know why I had that key and your journal on my desk. I told him that you had come and wanted to make a donation to the institution, but the fire interrupted our conversation, so I never learned the details and no donation was made. I told him you left the key and journal on my desk when we realized the building was burning. He then told me about your violent encounter in my office and I told him that I saw you carry him to safety. You
may well have saved his life. In gratitude, he let the matter drop for all concerned.”
“Generous of him, considering he had no key and no journal.”
Henry grinned. “Thanks to your quick thinking.”
“Thank heaven for Marianna McLoughlin being right there to spirit me away. Whatever happened to her?”
“She still lives here, in the same house. I can arrange a visit, if you’d like.”
He shook his head. “I think it better to keep my appearances to a minimum.”
“What did become of you, Angus?”
“I moved west, where I’ve lived since the war. In the New Mexico Territory.”
“That’s part of what you explored in 1854.”
He nodded. “I was so taken by it all I decided that was where I should live. I have a ranch in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, near the Rio Grande. A long, low adobe house that melds into the landscape. Many rooms, surrounded by a shady veranda. I wish you could see it.”
And he told his old friend about the refuge. The chores of feeding the cattle, shutting up the pigs, and seeing to it the chickens remained out of the coyotes’ reach. The evenings on the veranda, where a couple of hours of coolness refreshed from the summer heat. And the nights. So dark. The only spark an occasional match to light a cigar, the only discomfort the mosquitoes.
“They’re the worst pests,” he told Henry. “You either get used to their sting or get good at slappin ’em. The only thing that really keeps ’em away is a wheelbarrow full of manure, lighted, then placed windward so the breeze carries the stinky smoke your way.”
“Sounds lovely.”
He caught the sarcasm. “It actually is, Joseph. It’s a paradise. They have these beans, refried in hot fat. Frijoles refritos. Refried beans. You just mop ’em up with bread. My kids love ’em.”
“I’m glad things worked out for you. Are you still painting?”
His former boss looked tired, the years catching up. He had to be near eighty, but he was still in charge of America’s greatest scientific institution.
“From time to time I have been known to favor a canvas. It still brings some pleasure.”
